EDITOR’S NOTE: The following information is attributed to Martha Weddle with comments from Pauline Hoover with the Brown County Historical Society.

Martha and Monte Weddle, one son William Jackson Weddle and one daughter Sara Lou, lived on Greasy Creek. We lived on the farm where my husband was born. We moved to the farm in 1934.

We had maple trees in the yard, which were large enough to put a pole from one tree to the next one to hold rope swings for the children. We also had a large porch swing which was hung from another large maple tree. The yard had a picket fence around it.

In the summer and fall if we left home to go into Nashville or to visit friends we often found people in the yard swinging or having a picnic. One time after being gone for an hour or longer, we found two cars in our driveway and the yard full of people.

As I went into the house, my husband was talking to the men. I found a woman in the house. You see, in 1938 or 1940 we never had to lock our doors, winter or summer.

The woman said, “There isn’t anyone home.” I said, “Oh yes there is, I live here, what were you hunting for?” She hesitated a second then said, “We thought this was a park with the swings, and I just came in to look around. There was no one home.” I asked her what she would do if she found me in her home and if she wasn’t home. She did not answer. They left their picnic trash in the yard. Often we found people in the yard having picnics but that was the only time we ever found anyone inside the house.

Another time I woke up rather early one summer morning and heard someone rocking in the living room. As we just had drapes between the living room and bedroom I got up and peeked to see who was there. I went back to bed and whispered to my husband that someone was rocking in the living room. Monte thought I was joking, but got up to see.

When he went into the living room the man said, “Omer, I fell, then I got lost. I walked and walked but I made it.” Omer Allender was caretaker of the county farm where several men and women lived. The men and women who lived at the county farm had no home so they helped with the work to pay their way.

In those days there was no inside plumbing. This man had gone out to empty the slop jar, as they were called, and had fallen. He got confused and walked a half mile up Greasy Creek to our house carrying the slop jar. He had put it on the front porch and came in to rock and wait for breakfast. After calling Mr. Allender, my husband took the man to the county farm, the large white house on the hill where Greasy Creek dead-ends into old State Highway 46.

Several times we went on short vacations, never locking the house, and nothing was ever bothered.

In the winter we always butchered two hogs. Two or three of our neighbors helped with the work. A couple of women would come to make the sausage and cut up the fat to render into lard. When finished the helpers would take a side or shoulder home, some sausage or whatever they wanted. Then when they butchered they would return whatever they had taken. In that way everyone would have fresh meat several times during the winter, not just once.

Butchering was hard, greasy work — but fun. All the door knobs in the house would be greasy on butchering day and most everything else you touched for several days until we got everything washed up.

A personal note, this story from Martha (Snyder) Weddle — Nov. 27, 1904 to March 15, 1998 — brought back a flood of childhood memories to me.

I remember when I was a small child, my father would take us to visit our grandparents, during butchering time. My mother and father, uncles and aunts all jumped in and helped my grandfather with the butchering.

Once, just once, I wound up in the barn when the hogs were being slaughtered. My father sent me to the house — pronto — where the women were working. I never-ever went to the barn again during butchering day. If you don’t know about butchering day, it not only is a very long emotional day, but it is a lot of hard work.

As for tourists picnicking in your yard, yes, we have had them picnicking in our yard. They will also dig out your flowers and pick your daffodils. Yes, they did. My husband saw them. He yelled to them “Get out of there.” The lady reached down and grabbed a couple more daffodils then ran and got in her car. You just have to laugh because it gets funny.

Submitted by Pauline Hoover, Brown County Historical Society